Night Shade
by Cerridwen7777
Summary: In which Sam and Dean discover what hides in the shadows.  Rated for language and gore.
1. Chapter 1

**Set mid-season 4. Please read and review. Also, I have no Beta, so any errors are my own damned fault. Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>He feels it before he sees it, feels the presence of an absence, the weight of a shadow. He can hear ragged, low breaths, the nearly silent rasping draw of air into nonexistent lungs. The chill in the air shows him his own breath.<p>

_No…_

The darkness is so complete that it seems to suck in the light that glows from the crack beneath his bedroom door, to pull it in like a black hole pulls in everything before it.

He cannot look away.

_Go away!_

It comes closer, a creeping blackness in the dark, until he feels it beside his bed, looming over him, crowding around him.

_Please! Mommy, please!_

It prods at him, touch soft like whispers of wind on the skin, but jagged like tiny knives. The touch stings at his neck, and the sudden pain jabbing at his spine is so intense that he wants to scream, but he can't. His breath is gone, stolen. So he lays back and squeezes his eyes shut tight, praying in his child's mind for someone to help him.

_**Now I am become death. Destroyer of worlds.**_

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><p>They'd rolled into Copeland, Kansas at dusk the previous night, summoned by a rough-voiced phone call from Bobby, a grisly police report, and the near-cold trail of Pestilence. The streets were empty, the ramshackle houses battened down for the night as if a hurricane was imminent, shutters buttoned tight and doors double-locked. The only movement was the breeze that rocked a pair of shoes hanging from the telephone line like over-ripe fruit. The clerk at the town's only no-tell motel, a shaggy-haired hipster with more piercings than common sense, gave them a suspicious glare but handed over their keys without comment.<p>

Neither brother made any mention of the vague discomfort each felt at being so near to Lawrence, _hell, at being in Kansas at all._ So instead they shared a meal of cold sandwiches and warm beer, and Sam fell asleep as the flickering light of the television bathed the room in a soft, electric-blue glow, while Dean crunched on potato chips and stared, half-drunk, at a wrestling program.

Now the brothers stood in the air conditioned cool of the Gray County Coroner's office, stiff and uncomfortable in their suits. Dean inserted a finger between his throat and his too-tight collar, grumbling inaudibly about his hangover, and Sam jabbed an irritated elbow into his ribs. "'S your own damn fault," he hissed.

The coroner, a large man both vertically and horizontally, emerged from his office, smelling of cheap wine and sweat, and looking decidedly disturbed at their request to see the body of Jared Mingo. "To be honest, while I don't often see the FBI here in Gray County, I'm quite glad you're here. This case really is beyond me." He scraped a doughy hand through his wire-bristle hair. "I don't know who could do that sort of thing to a child. To _anyone._" He blanched. "Frankly, I have no desire to take another look, so you'll have to be on your own."

He led Sam and Dean down a fluorescent-lit hallway and into the morgue. The smell of rot was clear above the formaldehyde and glutaraldehyde stink. The coroner took a deep, shaking breath before opening a morgue drawer and pulling out the sliding stretcher. The full extent of the smell struck them all at the same time, a stench of rotting meat, spoiling blood, and death. With a valiant and nearly futile effort, Dean swallowed back a monstrous gag and schooled his expression into one of professional disconnect. The coroner quickly stepped back from the open morgue drawer, nausea clear on his own face. In a voice barely audible he choked out, "It's all yours, gentlemen," and then he turned tail and scuttled out of the morgue.

"Amateur," muttered Sam, though the smell rising from the mound beneath the white sheet was turning his stomach. It was clear from the silhouette beneath the sheet that there wasn't a body laying there. Not a whole one, anyway. Turning away so Dean couldn't see him close his eyes to steal himself, Sam reached out and pulled the sheet away.

"Holy shit." Dean spoke from behind his hand, as though holding back the urge to vomit. On the shining steel there lay not a human form, but only a heap of flesh, macerated and oozing, the red of blood darkening to green and black with the creep of putrefaction. The white gleam of bone peeked here and there out of the gore, and Dean had to step back away from the carnage of it as the whiskey from the night before threatened to make a multi-colored reappearance.

Sam narrowed his eyes and his mouth curled as he bent closer, eying the pile of viscera and bones. He fished a pair of latex gloves from his back pocket and pulled them on, snapping them against his wrist, and he gingerly pincered a tibia out of the mess. He smoothed the gore away to reveal what should have been the pearly smoothness of bone, but instead it was crisscrossed with a haphazard pattern of miniscule scrapes and scratches. Through his gloves he could feel tiny ridges, sharp striations where bone had been sheared away in deep gouges.

Dean mastered his rebellious stomach and leaned in to squint at the bone. "What the hell?" He ran his own gloved finger over the rough surface. "Dude. Those are teeth marks."

Sam nodded grimly. "Really fucking small teeth, but yeah. Teeth." He laid the bone on a clean section of the gurney and turned back to poke at the rest of the remains. "The flesh has been chewed too…"

"Well this is a new one." Dean slicked off his gloves and tossed them across the room toward a biohazard bin. "Theories?"

Sam's brow furrowed and he huffed a sigh. "Not a clue. I've never heard of anything like this, not in lore or superstition. Could be a creature, could be a spirit, could be a demon…I just don't know."

Dean eyed the bloody mass, still working hard to master his nausea. "Whatever it is, chomping up a little kid like that…we're gonna kill it. With extreme prejudice."

Sam stopped short and turned a baleful look on Dean. "Dude, this isn't Die Hard. Do we really need the hyperbole?"

Dean just flipped him the bird and pushed the stretcher back into the morgue drawer. "Regardless, whatever this thing is, it's pissed me right the fuck off." He scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. "Like I wasn't nauseous enough before." A cloud passed over his face and he muttered, "So research, then." Sam just nodded, and Dean groused, "Now I really _am_ going to be sick."

Sam slipped off his own gloves and tossed them in the bin. "Bobby's already working some leads on his end. He's supposed to call in an hour or so."

Dean gave a glance backward, then gave the door to the morgue drawer a shove. It clicked close, the gleaming steel handle sliding home with a metallic sound that he would never admit sent shivers down his spine. But then the ring of his phone broke the silence and he snatched it from the pocket of his suit coat and glanced at the caller ID.

"Speak of the devil. Bobby?" Dean was silent for a moment, just listening, his mouth tightening. "Okay. Keep us updated." Dean hung up and rubbed a knuckle under his nose. "You know how Tim Sterling went off the grid a couple weeks ago, right?" Sam just nodded, choosing not to mention his last encounter with the other hunter. "Well, he's off the grid. Permanently."

Sam's stomach lurched. "Damn." His voice was husked with regret that he was vaguely surprised to feel. _How many more? _"What happened?"

"Bobby doesn't know yet." Dean stuffed the phone back in his pocket, his face pinched with weary anger. "The cops found him. What was left of him, anyway." His mouth tightened. "And there wasn't much."

Sam's brow furrowed. "So it's the same thing we've got going here."

"Yeah. Bobby said there wasn't enough of Tim left to fit in a bucket." Dean pulled a face that looked like he was aiming for nausea but reached only sad disgust. He drew his hand across his mouth again, trying to hide the little wobble in his chin. He had liked Tim, shady and sneaky as he was, and Dean found the whole thing to be a damn shame. "Poor guy didn't go out in a blaze of glory, he went out as a chew toy for god knows what."

"What the hell is this, Dean?"

Dean wouldn't meet his brother's eyes, staring instead at the closed drawer containing what remained of a little boy. "I don't know. But we're going to fucking kill it."


	2. Chapter 2

**I have no excuse for the delay in posting. But was futzing around this weekend, reread Veritas Aequitas, and remembered how much fun it used to be to write. So I said, Self, stop worrying about what somebody else wants to see, write what YOU want to see. So there we are.**

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><p><em>He could feel it, just out of sight, lurking, waiting…could almost hear the breaths, feel the heat of its flesh, smell the stink of its breath…<em>

Sam lay beneath the threadbare blanket, sleep nowhere close by, and he ran his eyes around the perimeter of the room, checking salt lines and sigils, checking security…checking for lifelines. Anxiety lingered close to the front of his brain, nipping and biting at his nerves, and he forced himself to take a long, slow breath. _Stop being paranoid. There's nothing hiding in the shadows._

Assuring himself that all was still secure, despite his ragged nerves, he spared a glance to the twin bed next to his own. Dean was still sleeping, curled in on himself, hugging a pillow to his chest, knees pulled up. His breaths came slow and even, and Sam knew he wasn't having nightmares. _For once. Thank God for small favors._

Sam knuckled at his eyes, swiping away the grit of sleeplessness. The sheets were scratchy against the bare skin of his legs and the blanket smelled faintly of mothballs and weed, so he grunted and rolled out of the bed. _Half past the ass-crack of dawn anyway, may as well get an early start. _Nearly tipping over sideways, he grumbled and stumbled to the bathroom, itching for a shower, eager to rinse away the grunge of the cheap motel. Dark brown rust stains in the tub made his toes curl, but he hopped in and quickly turned on the taps, which rumbled and squeaked for a few seconds before sputtering forth a thin stream of tepid water from the showerhead.

Over the sound of the falling water Sam heard Dean's phone ringing, and he caught the low growl of Dean's sleepy answer. The long silence that followed immediately made Sam's instincts prick, as if the devil on his shoulder was whispering in his ear, _trouble._ He hurriedly rinsed the shampoo from his hair, cringing as it stung his eyes, and then hopped out of the shower. He slipped on the wet tile, nearly spanging his head off the sink, and he snatched a towel to wrap around his waist. The towel was so threadbare that it was barely enough to make him decent, and he cussed, poking his head out of the bathroom. "Who was that?"

Dean spared his brother a glance as he drained the last mouthful from the fifth of Jack Daniels he had started the night before. "Bobby. He's been getting calls from hunters all over, all seeing the same shit we saw yesterday…"

"The kid in the morgue you mean?" Sam scrubbed a hand-towel through his hair, trying not to remember the details of the mangled body. _Only just got my stomach back where it belongs._

"Yeah." Dean's mouth tightened and the muscles in his jaw jumped. "This all points toward big bad." He scratched at his scalp, concern clearly etched on his face.

Sam's stomach twirled. "I know," he muttered in agreement. "For it to be so sudden and widespread doesn't feel right."

Dean shrugged, turning the empty liquor bottle over and over in his hands as if trying to ground himself to reality through the touch of the smooth glass. "Who the hell even knows anymore?" He dropped the bottle to the carpet and leaned forward, elbows on knees, resting his forehead against his tented fingers. "I'm seein' Satan in every shadow nowadays."

Sam nodded in grim agreement and stood to slip into his boxers. "So what's the plan?" A mirthless smile curved his mouth. "Remember when the only thing we had to worry about were hauntings and wendigos and vampires? You know, run-of-the-mill, non-apocalyptic monsters."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Those were the days." He leaned down and retrieved his jeans, which were crumpled on the dirty carpet in front of the television. After a quick sniff-check he shimmied into them, then flopped to a seat on the bed to pull on his boots. As he yanked a bootlace tight it snapped, whiplashing across the back of his hand, and he barked a terse _fuck._

Sam shot him a look but didn't comment, instead mentally filing it away, adding this to all the other tiny signs that Dean was giving him. He'd been snappish and cranky for a week now, hitting the bottle far too often and too hard _(although when you probably can clinically qualify as an alcoholic, how much is too much?). _He opened his mouth to comment, but Dean turned to look at him and suddenly flinched. Sam whirled, his adrenaline spiking, only to find Castiel standing blank-faced behind him.

"Goddammit, Cas, don't fucking do that!" Dean hissed, hand clutched over-dramatically at his heart. "Can't you call ahead once in a while?"

"There was not time," Castiel relied, his eyes hard and unreadable. "I have news that may disturb you." He glanced at Dean, something deeper flickering behind his gaze.

"Well, that's nothing new," snarked Sam. Dean shot him a look but didn't speak.

Castiel would have rolled his eyes, if it weren't completely unheavenly to do so, and he intoned huffily, "Frankly, I believe you need to see it to understand."

Before either Sam or Dean could object, Castiel reached out and pressed his finger to Dean's forehead, and they disappeared.

"I told you not to do that!" Dean barked, head spinning slightly, sphincter compressing. _Goddamn it, you fuck, you owe me a bottle of Exlax. _"And where's Sam?"

Castiel shook his head. "It takes too much energy for me to transport you both at the same time. I will go to him in a moment, and bring him." His eyes softened. "Do you know where you are?"

Dean glanced away from Castiel, and his stomach flipped as he recognized the homey wraparound front porch of Missouri Mosely's house. _Lawrence. Fuckin' Lawrence._

"Cas, we can't be here. I just…" Dean stopped, the press of panic in his chest nearly choking his breath. He suddenly felt like a little kid again, left alone in a dingy motel room with a fussy baby and not enough food to last the week. "Tell me this isn't the center of everything, not Lawrence."

"I do not believe it is the center, Dean." Castiel gently touched Dean's shoulder, and he was taken aback at the trembling tension he found there. "It is another point on the map, but it is not the cause. But I felt you should see what I've found, because it may lead us to our next step."

Realization was like a sledgehammer blow. "Dammit, Cas," breathed Dean. "Tell me she's not." Castiel didn't answer, just turned and walked up the steps of the front porch, looking over his shoulder at Dean with somber eyes.

"Fuck." Steeling himself with a breath, Dean cautiously pushed open the front door, cringing as the copper-salt smell of blood smacked him in the nose. The entryway was dim, lit only by the glow of the round stained glass window, casting shadows on the dark wood trim and banisters. The cast-iron radiator was ticking and hissing, and the carpet in the hall was stained dark with what was clearly a gory drag-mark. He huffed a breath in through his mouth, banishing his nerves at the smell of death, and followed the gruesome trail down the hall to the bedroom.

The ponderous tic of a grandfather clock was the only thing breaking the silence as Dean stepped into the bedroom. Shelves crammed with knickknacks sat undisturbed, porcelain figures staring blankly out over the room. On the dresser there was a neat army of perfume bottles and a framed needlepoint of the Lord's Prayer. A jagged crack zigzagged across the glass of the frame.

And amongst this picture of domestic peace lay Missouri, well, her torso anyway. Her lower half was piled in a barely recognizable mass across the room. Her face was a mask of gore, one eye staring empty like a blank television screen. The other eye was gone, just an empty socket pooled with clots of congealed blood. Her chest was flayed open and pinky-red bits of lung tissue were splashed around her like spilled paint. Her hands were curled into clawed half-fists, and a few of her fingernails were broken off. Dean crouched and tentatively took one of Missouri's hands in his, and shook his head a little. He had the sudden, strange notion that he should pray, but what the fuck was the point now? _Too little, too fuckin' late._

A glint caught his eye, and he bent to pick up one of Missouri's diamond earrings, the post bloody and bent. But as he looked down at the dark, weathered skin of Missouri's hand, his brow furrowed suddenly and he pulled his small multi-tool from his pocket. With a squint of discomfort, he ran the blade of the knife under Missouri's fingernail. The tip of the blade came away gummed with a black, tarry grit. A quick sniff confirmed his suspicions. He rocked back on his heels and regarded the body, his friend. She'd given him a verbal bitch-slap now and again, sure, but this…she should have been baking cookies for her grandkids and belting hymns in the church choir, not having her guts torn out by walking terror.

Suddenly down the hall he heard Sam squawk, "Goddammit, Cas!" Dean heaved a little sigh out his nose and stood, turning away from Missouri's corpse and willing himself to remember her the way she used to be. As he shuffled down the hall back toward the living room, he heard Sam ask in a clearly disturbed voice, "So it somehow managed to take out a Precog? How is that possible?"

Dean trudged into the living room, jamming his hands deep into the pocket of his jeans. Sam shot him a look, appraising his brother's posture. "You okay, Dean?"

Dean shook his head. "Take a look." He gave Sam a small shove toward the bedroom, cringed at the sound of Sam's quiet gasp. Missouri's tabby cat, too frightened to move or make a sound, quivered in a corner of the couch, its fur crusted with the dried blood of its mistress. Castiel tilted his head slightly as he stooped to gather the terrified animal into his arms, and it buried its face in the crook of his elbow, shivering.

Dean sat gingerly on the arm of the couch, remembering full well the rich voice of his friend warning him about feet on the table, and he wished that she was there to smack him in the head. He sighed. "She's not even a hunter. So why kill her?"

Castiel absently smoothed his hand over the cat's fur. "Perhaps her unique abilities drew them to her."

"They were looking for something, then." Dean smoothed his thumb over his lips, trying to wipe away the taste of bile in his throat.

"They're looking for us." Sam slumped into the room, his face pale with nausea.

"Pompous much?" sniped Dean. He didn't look at Sam, instead moving to Castiel's side to scratch the nape of the still-trembling cat's neck.

Sam's mouth tightened at the corners. "They're killing hunters. They're killing our friends. They came here to make Missouri find us, they're trying to track us, I'm telling you."

Dean glared at his brother. "How the fuck do you know, man? It's the damn apocalypse, people are dying everywhere. It doesn't have to be about us all the time, for God sake." _Denial like heroin._

Castiel turned a serious eye to Dean. "I believe your brother may be right in this case, Dean." Dean clenched his jaw around the curse and remained silent. "The likelihood exists that forces are actively searching for you. And they know that if they cannot get information from your friends and associates, then their slaughter would certainly draw you into the open."

"Then why the hell would you bring us here?" Sam snapped, cutting Castiel off. "They could be watching the house."

Castiel looked over at him with hooded eyes. "No. The Prophet Chuck assured me that those who did this are gone. They have moved north. I fear that they're seeking out another of your friends."


End file.
